


Never Knew I Was A Dancer ('til delilah showed me how)

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Blood Magic, Bloodplay, Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Magical High, Rough Sex, Sacrifice, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:44:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Beg for me, Strife!” says Parvis. His voice is bright, gleeful, echoing in the high reaches of the empty stone castle he’s chosen to make his home, the seat of his power. “Go on! <i>Beg.</i> Tell me what you’ll do for me if I don’t use <i>this</i>-” The knife in his left hand flashes when he twists his wrist, the wicked glass blade glinting fire in the torchlight. “-to mark your pretty, <i>pretty</i> skin.”</p><p>(In which Strife has more than a few wires crossed - but that's okay, because Parvis does too, and they make the <i>perfect</i> pair.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Knew I Was A Dancer ('til delilah showed me how)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Momphos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momphos/gifts).



> “my only request is that u make my heart ache  
> u can choose if its a good ache or bad ache”
> 
> really hope you don’t come to regret giving me that choice, friend. :3c a very belated christmas present for glacial-coyote over on tumblr, in exchange for [his lovely gift to me](http://sparxflame.tumblr.com/post/136334898128/glacial-coyote-a-christmas-gift-for-sparxflame). the “blood magic = boners” headcanon is shamelessly borrowed from mindfulwrath and her “vital ruins” series, because it was too much fun not to play around with. title is from "[delilah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoerdXz2Gog)" by florence + the machine.

“Beg for me, Strife!” says Parvis. His voice is bright, gleeful, echoing in the high reaches of the empty stone castle he’s chosen to make his home, the seat of his power. “Go on! _Beg_. Tell me what you’ll do for me if I don’t use _this_ -” The knife in his left hand flashes when he twists his wrist, the wicked glass blade glinting fire in the torchlight. “-to mark your pretty, _pretty_ skin.”

Panting, Strife watches it with wide eyes, how the tip of it flashes and arcs with the slightest movement of his wrist. “Parvis…” he manages, voice rough. He means it as a complaint, a warning – but the word comes out pulled-wire taut, vibrating with _something_ , impossible to identify but still singing tension through every muscle in his body.

He tries to shift, tugging at the ropes binding him spread-eagled across the blood altar, hips and shoulders tied down to the too-warm stone of opposite edges. The blood beneath him gurgles hungrily, sucking and sloshing in the smooth bowl of the altar, and he tries to arch away from it with a shudder. It doesn’t stop, though, roiling like the sea in a storm, droplets of warm, congealed crimson spattering across his back.

“That’s not begging, Strife,” says Parvis, and his voice _does_ hold a warning, the slightest hint of dangerous disappointment. He leans in, over Strife, and the touch of his clothes against Strife’s bare, hypersensitive skin is almost too much. “Come _on_ , it’s no fun if you won’t play!” Hooking a finger through the D-ring of the thick, leather collar cinched tight around Strife’s throat, he tugs, until Strife arches and grunts beneath the pressure of it. “ _Beg_!”

There’s a resonant power in his voice that can’t be disobeyed, and Strife swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing and pressing against supple leather warmed by his skin. “l-” He manages, trembling in the ropes, toes pointing uselessly towards the floor in a helpless attempt to get some kind of purchase. He feels so _exposed_ like this, tied down and open, feet dangling inches off the flagstone floor and arms splayed wide, the soft vulnerability of his chest and stomach opened up for the cold air and Parvis’ flashing blade.

It’s terrifying, enough to nearly take his breath away – for all the wrong reasons. He should be scared, he knows, should be terrified and grovelling and begging for his life, but instead his stomach is twisting with hot fire, arousal strangling his words to silence in his throat.

He’s never been good at this, telling adrenaline from arousal, and the crimson, manic gleam in Parvis’ eyes when their gazes meet is enough to have a familiar ache begin to flare between his legs.

Flushing with humiliation as he feels himself start to get hard, he tilts his head back until he’s staring up at the dark ceiling, cheeks burning. “Parvis, please-” It’s a poor attempt, and he knows it, but his words have abandoned him and his world has narrowed down to the dark eyes in the corner of his vision and the cold blade hovering just above his skin and the radiant warmth of the altar seeping into his bones. “I can’t-”

Before he can even process what’s happening, the knife is flashing, drawing a line of fire across his upper chest as it bites into the flesh there – shallowly, but still enough to draw blood, skin split open in a crimson line.

The cry of shocked pain has barely left his lips before there’s two fingers pushing inside him, slick and cool and almost painfully good but _not enough_. “Honestly, that’s _pathetic_ ,” says Parvis, voice laced with disappointment as Strife gasps and clenches around the intrusion, trying his best push back onto the fingers despite how thoroughly he’s tied down. “If you can’t do any better than that, I’m disappointed, Strifey, I really am.”

He shakes his head, shoves his fingers in another inch, and grins at the sound it rips from deep in Strife’s lungs. “Oh? Have you got something to say?” he asks, cruelly, sliding the fingers out just a little. The knife comes back – not cutting, just pressing, a line of wicked, threatening cold against Strife’s collarbone – and Parvis’ fingers start up a shallow thrust, teasing and maddening and _nowhere near enough_.

It’s enough to have the arousal flaring white-hot in Strife’s stomach, though, enough to send blood rushing between his legs despite the threat of the blade so close to the soft flesh of his neck. It starts his pulse racing, adrenaline like ice in his veins, and he lets out a rough noise, somewhere between a growl and a sob, as his legs twitch uselessly against the ropes. “Oh god, _Parvis_ -” he begs, swallowing his pride as the arousal and fear simmering in his stomach begins to bubble over. “Parvis, _please_ \- please-”

He doesn’t think Parvis would kill him. Probably. He knows that, knows Parvis needs him far too badly to kill him, even if he were so inclined – but his hindbrain _doesn’t_ , just knows there’s sharp and glass and cold an inch from his throat. His heart races in his chest, slamming a bruising tattoo against the inside of his ribs and only managing to send more blood trickling out of the shallow slices in his skin.

“That doesn’t sound like a no, Strife!” says Parvis, gleefully, twisting his wrist and pushing his fingers as far into Strife as he can with a slick, filthy, _obscene_ noise. The knife slides down from Strife’s collarbone to his heart, an idle, wandering pinprick of cold. It draws a thin, scratchy line of blood as it goes, crimson beading like rubies in its wake. “That doesn’t sound like a no at _all_.”

“ _Don’t_!” shrieks Strife, as the knife bears down again, slicing through skin like it’s little more than butter. The coldness of the blade nearly takes his breath away for so many reasons he can’t tell whether they’re wrong or right – whether the tight coil in his stomach is fear or lust – and he has to suck in a frantic breath to steady himself, chest heaving up into the blade’s jagged edge. “Don’t, _Parvis_ -”

Parvis pouts, sticking out his lower lip, shiny with saliva and full from where he’s been worrying at it. “Oh, come _on_ , Strifey,” he says, like a petulant child, pulling the blade away and tapping it absently to his mouth. It leaves a smear of red across across his lip, and Strife suddenly wishes he weren’t bound so he could suck the taste of himself off Parvis’ skin. “That’s better, but really? I think you can do _even better_ than that.”

Swallowing hard, Strife tips his head back against the unnaturally warm stone of the blood altar and closes his eyes. He can hear the sucking gurgle of blood below him, the hammer of his heart in his own chest, Parvis’ heavy, ragged breathing above him.

“…Fuck me,” he says, quietly, reluctantly, though his voice echoes hollowly in the near-silent room. It’s what Parvis wants to hear, he knows – and there’s no use trying to deny that that’s what he wants, after all, not with his cock hard and leaking against his stomach and his thighs twitching against the ropes with the urge to rock his hips up into thin air.

It’s sick, _wrong_ , he knows it is, the way the burning pull of the cuts makes his stomach curl, the fact that the fear only makes him harder, but he can’t find it in himself to fight it.

The knife flicks across his skin, a shallow gash opened over his sternum with the slightest, easiest twitch of Parvis’ wrist, and he gasps, bucking into the ropes. “Not good enough!” sing-songs Parvis, idly, free hand trailing wandering fingers up the ladder of his ribs to press against the new mark.

“Fuck me,” Strife repeats, louder, feels a flush of colour rise from his chest over his neck and up to his cheeks at such filth coming from his mouth. He knows that’s why Parvis is doing this, knows Parvis gets off on him flushing and squirming and debasing himself, and he plays into Parvis’ hands every goddamn time with it. “Fuck me, please, just don’t-”

He braces himself for another slash – and then cries out when, instead, he gets Parvis’ slick fingers pushing inside him again, wet and easy, a steady, blunt pressure that he can’t help but clench around. Groaning wordlessly, he twists against the ropes, against the way the soft, warm leather of the collar presses tight to his skin like a fist around his throat when he arches his back. “Parvis!” he gasps, like a prayer, like a curse, voice ragged with arousal. “Please, _please_ \- I need-” The fingers crook and curl, and he loses his words again in a wave of heat that rushes through him. “I need- _god_ , I need-”

There’s no words for what he needs, but it’s all too obvious from how hard he is, from the way he writhes on Parvis’ fingers, from the blood-streaked sweat that trickles across his ribs. Chest heaving, eyes open and wild with arousal, he rocks into Parvis’ touches, arches up against the blade pressed almost tenderly to his stomach, and groans.

 _Fuck me_ , he thinks, but his mouth says, “ _Hurt me_ ,” as he bucks hard enough upwards for the knife to bite into him again. The blood pools on his stomach, mixing with the sweat beading across his skin and streaking down his flank in thin rivulets. “Fuck, just- _please_ -”

A drop of it clings to his skin for a second, and then falls, plummeting into the roiling crimson in the altar – and Parvis freezes, trembling, eyes wide and unfocused.

After a long heartbeat, his shoulders slump, a shiver rippling down his spine. “Oh,” he manages, lips parted and pupils blown huge and dark, and Strife recognises the signs of a blood magic-induced high only too easily. Parvis’ fingers curl tighter around the knife, knuckles white as his throat works around a heavy swallow, riding the wave.

As suddenly as it had come, it’s gone, leaving hungry arousal and a ringing sort of mania in its wake. “ _Much_ better,” purrs Parvis, with predatory satisfaction, pushing a third finger into Strife to feel him clench around them, hear him cry out. This time, when he bears down with the knife against the softness of Strife’s skin, the noise that claws its way out of Strife’s throat is a ragged-edged moan.

He opens a careful line down the side of Strife’s ribs, just deep enough to bleed, and watches like something feral and starving, twitching with every droplet of blood that falls into the altar. It’s a high unlike any he’s ever known, like redstone straight into his veins but sharper, _better_ – and although he was hard before, it’s _painful_ now, cock aching and pressed against the tight, constricting cling of his dark jeans.

“Fuck-” he mutters, grinding forward against the altar to try and ease the pressure. His hand shakes a little as he brings the knife down again, just above Strife’s nipple, and listens to the thin noise that escapes Strife’s poor attempts to muffle it.

Strife’s writhing now, tugging against the ropes hard enough to bruise and burn his wrists His shoulders and hips must be rubbed raw and bloody from scraping against the uneven stone of the altar – but he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself, eyes wide with something between terror and lust.

When Parvis bends down to lick the new cut, catching Strife’s nipple between his teeth and _tugging_ as he pushes his fingers in deeper and curls them in a wickedly slow motion, it’s all Strife can do not to sob. Instead, his whole body jerks, the muscles of his neck corded and straining beneath the collar as he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, every inch of him singing with tension and _need_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” repeats Parvis as he pulls back to watch the scene before him, biting his own lip hard enough to draw blood, and his self-control fails him.

He tugs his fingers out of Strife and drops the knife onto Strife’s stomach, rising and falling with every heaving breath, to scrabble with slick bloodied fingers at the zipper of his jeans. It’s too much effort to pull them down properly, to actually kick them off his bare feet and across the room, so he just shoves them down until they’re halfway down his thighs and he can free his cock with a low groan.

Wrapping a hand around his length, he strokes himself slowly, luxuriously, hand slick with lube and Strife’s blood as he watches Strife writhe. He wants to tease himself more – tease them both more, until they’re so mindless with lust that there’s nothing human left in them, just bloodlust and desire and a furious, animal _hunger_. But he needs, needs so badly it feels like a knife to the gut, and Strife is _there_ , laid out before him, like an offering, a _sacrifice_ …

He pushes into Strife before he even knows what he’s doing, body choosing for him as he grabs at Strife’s hips hard enough to bruise and slides forward into the wet, slick hole waiting for him with a feral snarl.

Strife’s not stretched enough, and Parvis isn’t slick enough – but the pain is just another low burn amongst the singing fire of his torso, barely enough to penetrate the euphoric haze of endorphins that’s already settling over him. When he cries out, it’s with relief, not pain, clenching down around Parvis’ cock. Parvis isn’t thick, but he’s _long_ , and the slow shove of it, inch by inch, takes Strife’s breath away until he’s gasping and heaving and Parvis is balls deep in his more-than-welcoming body.

“Gods, _Strife_ ,” groans Parvis, shoulders trembling at the tightness of him, at how _good_ it feels. It takes an effort of will to let go of Strife’s hips, crescent-moon wounds where his fingernails have bitten into thin skin, and pick the knife up with one hand to touch the blade right over Strife’s heart.

Reaching down with his free hand to press a flat palm against Strife’s stomach, he slides out, agonisingly slowly, until they’re both gasping with the slow burn of it. When he slams back in, Strife yells, back arching and toes curling as Parvis starts up a brutal pace, fucking into Strife so deep he swears he can almost _taste_ Parvis, will never be free or clean of him again.

The blade dances over his skin, a skittering trail of sensation that bites down with every other thrust, opening his chest and shoulders up until his skin is a crimson-smeared mess and blood streams down into the altar in thin rivulets. Every cut makes him clench, tightening around Parvis and groaning, head lolling against the blood-warm stone of the altar and eyes nearly rolled back into his skull as he drowns in the feel of it – the cold burn of the knife, the chafe of the ropes, the warmth of Parvis’s cock deep inside him.

“ _Say my name_ ,” hisses Parvis, voice low and eyes hungry as he flicks the knife up to press against the thin line of throat between Strife’s collar and his collarbones. “ _Say it_ , Strifey, come on. Beg me. Praise me. _Worship_ me.” He grins widely, white teeth stained pink with Strife’s blood, and he looks so wild and inhuman and _powerful_ in that moment that Strife aches with it. “I am your god, after all- aren’t I?”

“Parvis,” gasps Strife breathlessly, helplessly – and finds that, once he starts, he can’t stop. It falls from his lips like a prayer as the fire in his stomach coils tighter, rises higher, until the only thing he can think of is the impossible heat and that _name_. “Parvis, Parvis, _Parvis, please_ , god- _Parv-_ ”

He comes like that, sticky and shameful over his own stomach, the kiss of a glass blade against his neck and worship on his lips and Parvis fucking into him hard enough to bruise. If he’d had the breath, he would have sobbed his way through his orgasm – but as it is, he just gasps, a futile attempt to get enough air into his lungs as he hangs limp and bloody and exhausted over the altar, wrung out and aching and _used_.

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

Parvis isn’t done with him, though, still chasing his own orgasm with gritted teeth and frustration written in the lines of trembling tension across his shoulders. “Come on,” he mumbles, to himself, slamming into Strife until the man beneath him is crying out even through his post-orgasmic daze, squirming against the rising bruises of his hipbones against the altar and the burn of the ropes holding him open wide against his thighs. “Come _on_ -”

It’s not enough, though, _never_ enough, not even Strife – not the tight, slick heat of him or his gasping breaths or the way he clenches around Parvis’ cock. As good as it is, as much as the sight of him laid out as a willing sacrifice makes Parvis’ gut wrench with arousal, it’s just _not enough_ to make him come.

Nothing’s enough any more. Nothing, except for the _blood_.

His fingers white-knuckle as they tighten around the hilt of the knife, and he dips his head to Strife’s collarbones and throat, licking hungrily over the shallow slices there until Strife’s writhing beneath him again, twisting and panting. “That’s it,” Parvis gasps, pushing into him, chin and lips smeared crimson, “that’s it, oh god, _Strife-_ ”

The knife trails down Strife’s chest, over his ribs – a flash of cold, sharpened glass against the soft skin of his stomach – before Parvis finds the curve of his ribs and _cuts_.

It tears easily through skin and flesh, digging in and opening Strife up almost to the bone as the blood comes rushing out. Strife cries out with a pain too sharp and great to be compensated for by the rush of endorphins, the blood altar gurgles hungrily with the fresh sacrifice, the world seems to hold its breath as the magic rises like a cresting wave – and Parvis comes, muffling his yell by sinking teeth into the soft meat of Strife’s shoulder, tasting copper on his tongue as the overwhelming pleasure the magic crashing down on him nearly whites out his vision.

When his senses return to him, he’s sprawled over Strife’s naked, twitching body, blood and come and sweat smeared between them. They’re both soft, now, sated, but he’s still rocking against Strife with short, gasping thrusts, his hindbrain still struggling to process what’s happened as conscious thoughts percolate slowly down through hazy euphoria.

Strife keens when Parvis pulls out, an animal noise that doesn’t ask for permission before escaping his chest. He’s not sure he could have stopped it either way – not with how _gone_ he feels, dazed and soft and sticky and aching all over. Everything’s flushed, fever-warm, other than the numb chill of his toes and fingers, from blood loss of shock or the way the ropes are tied too tight around his wrists and ankles.

“Shh, shh,” murmurs Parvis and, even high out of his mind as he is, his voice is still seductive, a low wheedle that snakes its way into Strife’s ear and wraps his brain in another layer of cotton-wool stupid. “Shh, Strifey, don’t worry.” He leans down to lick a long stripe up from Strife’s navel to his breastbone, lips curled into a hungry smile. “I’ll take care of all this mess…”

It’s the magic, Strife tells himself as he lies there, bloody and trembling with the shock slowly setting in, lines of bruises rising over his skin in the criss-crossing pattern of the ropes holding him down. It’s the magic that makes him like this, makes him want this, makes him _sick_. It’s the magic that makes him moan, high and thin and thready, when Parvis’ mouth closes over the deep, bloody bite mark at his shoulder and begins to suck.

The knowledge – forcefully, conveniently ignored through sheer force of will – that blood magic only gives pleasure to the one wielding the blade weighs heavy at the back of his mind, as he goes willingly and blissfully _blank_ at the touch of Parvis’ tongue against his ruined flesh.

 


End file.
